


As You Are

by beltainefaerie



Series: As You Are [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Asexual Sherlock, BDSM, Brief homophobia, Cane, Dom John, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Non-Sexual Submission, Paddle, Riding Crop, Romance, Sub Sherlock, collaring, consensual sadism, flogger, whip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John always knew Sherlock was different. When he sees the remnants of a scene, he begins to realise just how different, and how far he'll go for Sherlock's happiness. Meanwhile, Sherlock isn't sure how John will take his proclivities, but John proves he's not only experienced, but he's got Sherlock's best interests at heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Are

**Author's Note:**

> If you want a piece where Sherlock learns to love sex because he fell in love, move along. Sherlock is asexual and stays that way in this fic. If you are intrigued by the concept of a different sort of loving BDSM relationship, where a sensual sadist discovers that his sexuality is more kink than gender oriented and an asexual finds joy in submission while remaining true to himself, I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> For RJ-abacura (who prompted this ages ago) and conductoroftardislight (who was a huge cheerleader when I started writing this in word wars), but I hope everyone, and especially all my asexual friends, enjoy. 
> 
> Special thanks to my movie night darlings and the SHJW writer’s group for brainstorming and encouragement and to conductoroftardislight and Christyimnotred for being fantastic betas for this piece, asking lots of questions and leaving comments that made this piece much better!  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dishes were done with exacting precision, dried thoroughly and stacked neatly. Books shelved and experiments labelled and properly stored, only in the bottom drawers unless he had express permission to do otherwise. He wiped down the counters and hung the rag to dry. 

Chores accomplished, Sherlock retrieved John’s crop, knelt gracefully beside John’s chair, and waited. Any minute he would be home. If his tone on the phone had been any indication, it had been a hard day. Thinking further, Sherlock set aside the crop and stood to get down a tumbler, pouring out a finger of whiskey and setting it on the table beside the armchair. If John didn’t want it, he didn’t need to drink it, but chances were he would and the thoughtfulness would be appreciated either way. One of Sherlock’s most valuable qualities was his ability to deduce and anticipate what service would be required, once a few guidelines had been settled. He set the glass on the table and sank back into position.

He wore his charcoal trousers and purple button up, open at the throat. 

At first this had all been uncomfortable. Not physically. Not really. Not in any way he didn’t want at any rate. He just kept expecting John to want things he didn’t care for. Of course there were punishments now and again. Not caring for those was entirely the point. 

But...

\---6 months earlier---

It had been too long. Sherlock knew what he needed, knew what would alleviate the boredom, the tedium. Purpose. He needed purpose, orders, direction when he wasn’t working. 

Of course, it never worked out

They all wanted things he couldn’t enjoy. He could do them, of course. Anyone could, he supposed. But it was hardly stimulating. Rather disappointing for everyone involved, eventually. He had mastered the skills and usually they didn’t notice at first. But over time, the energy was simply… off. He supposed some might have gotten off on the fact that he didn’t want to, but that was distinctly not the dynamic he sought.

In any case, those he’d played with could never think far enough outside of the box. Outside of usual expectations. Hardly entertaining to put a slave in a cock cage if he never once strained against it. And orgasm denial wasn’t a useful training tool for someone who had gone years without of their own volition. Most wanted to tease about what a slut he was or make him beg for their cock. He could pretend. He could go through the motions, but it lost all power for him. An exercise in play acting was futile for his needs.

Ultimately, most dominants had found him frustrating. Or useless. Or both. And really, he found the same of them, so it never lasted. 

But he craved it. 

He’d tried professionals, as their services were generally distinct from sex. The transactional nature somehow missed the mark, but would do in a pinch. And at the moment he could afford it. In fact, the way he was feeling, he could hardly afford not to. 

He cracked open his laptop and set to work. Soon, he was so immersed in his search that he didn’t register John coming home until he was right behind him.

“New case?” John inquired, leaning over his shoulder.

Sherlock jumped, snapping the laptop shut. “Research,” he said shortly.

John raised his eyebrow, but did not push any further.

\---

A week later, Sherlock wasn’t up when John left for the surgery. Not unheard of, but it worried John. 

Sherlock had been skittish the last few days. On edge in a different way than usual. When he was bored, he was moody, restless and a bit of a nuisance, really, but John had learned exactly the right times to leave tea, to ask questions or to remain silent, what kinds of foods would lure Sherlock to eat. This time, nothing worked. 

When John returned that night, Sherlock was awake. He was actually in the kitchen, fixing himself tea and moving stiffly. 

John hoped Sherlock wasn’t coming down with that horrible flu going around. But as Sherlock turned, John noticed a strange mark. 

“Sherlock?” John inquired, crossing to him quickly to examine the back of Sherlock’s neck more closely. “Is that a whip mark?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shivered slightly as John traced his finger beside the line.

“Who did this to you? Did you go off and investigate something without telling me?”

“John, no. It’s nothing like that. And I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine. You haven’t been fine in days. Please just tell me what the hell is going on!”

“John, I…” Sherlock started to explain, but stopped unsure how John would react. There wasn’t much sense in denying it now, though. ”It’s not for a case. It isn’t general research. It was for me. I sometimes need...resetting.”

“One of those you were looking up? A pro ought to have known better than to wrap like that, Sherlock. Whips aren’t something to mess around with.”

“It was my fault. I jumped. I shifted out of position unexpectedly.”

“Still, he should have been able to correct or had you in a position you couldn’t move like that. At least it didn’t break the skin. The blood blister will heal soon enough, but I want to see the rest.”

“John-” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and stopped narrowing his eyes, perhaps finally processing that John had known exactly what a whip mark looked like, and known that an accident like that shouldn’t have happened. 

“Sherlock, presumably there are more and I just need to see if anything needs treatment. You can’t see your back properly and a whip can break skin.”

“There was one that bled, yes. You can look,” Sherlock said grudgingly as he dropped the robe from around his shoulders. 

John hissed a sharp intake of breath at the sight. He traced his fingers lightly over the welts that didn’t look like they needed attention, feelings warring within him. He successfully fought the desire to run his nails over them, wanting desperately to hear just what noise Sherlock would make if he did. Reigning himself firmly back into doctor mode, he managed, “Two of those need ointment. Sit. I’ll be right back.”

For a miracle, Sherlock sat.

\---

“Sherlock, do you mind if I ask what led you to a pro dom?”

“Easier,” Sherlock said shortly.

“It would eliminate a lot of the guesswork, I suppose. And no worries about unwanted attachment?”

Sherlock hummed a sound that seemed like affirmation in response and John’s face fell slightly.

“Finding someone who fits my needs, can put up with me, and understands that the Work supersedes any rules that might otherwise be in place was ultimately fruitless. Unless...” Sherlock trailed off, dropping his gaze to his fingers resting on the table. John could almost see Sherlock put it together. He had recognised the whip mark. He had known that a professional shouldn’t have been able to strike his neck like that. 

John brushed his fingers over Sherlock’s. “It’s been a few years, but I know my way around a crop. I know enough not to use a whip yet, because it isn’t a skill I have acquired. But there are so many angles people take with this. What do you need from it?”

“Pain is helpful, especially whips, canes, crops, and floggers. I’m not fond of paddles, but they can be used as punishment, if needed. Are you suggesting that you could? That we…?”

“If you’re amenable.”

Sherlock nodded. “I trust you.”

“I haven’t played like this since I came back from Afghanistan. With the shoulder and the leg, I wasn’t sure how a scene would go. Some are drawn to soldiers in particular, but were often disappointed that I wouldn’t do interrogations. I’m even more set on that now. The last thing I need is to flashback in the middle of a scene.”

“Sensible.”

“Anything you particularly don’t want to do?”

“Anything with bodily fluids.”

John smiled at that. “Easy enough to avoid. I also wasn’t planning on using fire, chains or knives. I prefer rope, crops, that sort of thing. Overall, is it more power based for you? More the sensations?” John hesitated slightly, ”More sexual?“

Sherlock laughed. “No one has ever asked me that before. Power and sensation hold equal sway. It isn’t sexual. At all. But then,” he looked down, seeming uncharacteristically shy, vulnerable, while adding,”Nothing is for me.”

“Part of why it’s hard to find a match?” 

Sherlock nodded, looking grateful that John seemed to understand.

“Well, it _is_ sexual for me, usually, but I am used to playing with women. Never played with a bloke like this, so I’m not sure, but since it is the mix of power and pain that I find sexy, that might transfer. But that’s not important. It doesn’t have to be anything we don’t agree on.”

\---

Over the next two weeks as Sherlock’s back healed, they had several more conversations. Hard limits and safewords, favorite scenes and things that had gone awry. John retrieved a duffel of equipment he’d left in Harry’s garage when he shipped out and hummed cheerfully to himself as he checked over, cleaned and polished his kit. He had thought that perhaps this part of his life was over and warmth filled his chest at the idea of playing again. 

***

It seemed things were going to work out just fine.

They had been in scene in John’s room for half an hour, the energy between them almost palpable, a perfect loop of mastery and surrender. Sherlock’s chest and back were already marked beautifully from the cane and crop, lines of pink and red all across his pale skin. 

Sherlock kneeling naked before him was breathtaking, pitched slightly forward with hands braced on his knees, his plush arse hovering a few inches above his heels. John circled around him, crop held lightly as he debated where to strike next. He had never thought of Sherlock quite this way. He had been so controlled, so guarded that taking him apart like this never seemed possible. It made this moment all the more perfect, watching him give over. Gratifying to watch him respond. There were no witty retorts, none of the sass John had been prepared for. Instead, Sherlock arched and gasped with each strike, sighed as he sank back into position, and didn’t say a word. John was hard against his denims, but it was a pleasant ache and could certainly wait until they were finished here. 

Sherlock’s eyes were closed in bliss as he processed the sensations and simply gave over to John. 

Beautiful. John stopped a moment, adjusting himself and somehow at that moment, Sherlock’s eyes opened. Without a word, he crawled forward and began mouthing John through his flies.

John took a step back. “Sherlock, stop,” he commanded, warning in his tone. He tossed the crop onto his bed and cupped Sherlock’s jaw in his hand, looking down to meet his gaze. ”You said this isn’t a sexual place for you. Have you changed your mind?”

“No, Sir, but you clearly need...”

“I will tell you what I need. Get back in your damn position. When we are finished here, we can have a nice long chat about what we need, but I’m not finished with you yet. On your knees. Up more. Back straight. There. Gorgeous. You will hold this and you will count for me and remember that you don’t move unless I tell you to. You most certainly don’t touch me unless I tell you to.” With that, John crossed to his bag and pulled out the paddle. He didn’t think he’d need it today, but was glad it was here. 

As the polished wood connected with Sherlock’s bare arse, he took a sharp breath before stuttering through, “One, Sir.”

“You may thank me for the correction.”

“Thank you, Sir?”

“Very good, Sherlock,” John said as he brought the paddle down again. 

Sherlock cried out at the impact before adding, “Two. Thank you, Sir.”

At three, he rocked slightly out of position with the force of the blow, but recovered nicely and never missed his count. 

John smiled as he rained down blows four five and six in rapid succession, pausing only long enough for Sherlock to choke out the appropriate words.

By the time they reached ten, Sherlock was actually in tears, but still managed to hold his place.

“Good boy,” John murmured, dropping the paddle and carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. He crouched down beside Sherlock, pulling him to his chest. He held him like that for a moment before adding, “You took that very well. You can dress or not as you choose, then come down to the sofa.”

John went downstairs and busied himself with making them tea while he waited for Sherlock. He even had time to find a nice warm throw blanket for Sherlock to curl up in. 

It was a couple minutes before Sherlock descended the stairs and disappeared into his own room. When he emerged, he was wearing his blue silk dressing gown. He padded gently over to the sofa and sank to the floor beside it, wincing slightly as he sat.

“Do you at least want a pillow? I imagine you’re a bit sore.”

Sherlock shook his head. “The pain is quite the point for me, remember?” 

“Fair enough. “ John settled the blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders and offered him the tea, which Sherlock took gratefully. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as they sipped and there was a contented quiet for a while. 

At last, when their mugs were empty and Sherlock rested his head against John’s knee, the time felt right for talking further. 

“Sherlock, have you ever been with someone who didn’t make you serve sexually?” John began, “Outside of the professionals, I mean?”

Sherlock blinked up at John, brow furrowed. “No,” he answered, finally.

“So when you noticed I was reacting, you thought it was your job to help?”

Sherlock nodded, no longer meeting John’s eyes.

“Then let me be perfectly clear: If you ever genuinely want to try something like that, you may let me know, outside of a scene, and we’ll talk about it. Unless you want it, it’s not on the table. Ever. I can take care of things just fine. I get plenty of what I need from just what we are doing. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened. Could that really be? John was offering to him what no one ever had before. 

_Just as I am, I’m enough._

\---

It became something John looked forward to, craved even. Between cases, John could see the signs, the tension in Sherlock’s back and neck, his brow furrowing more often, purple blotches under his eyes. Or the times he would become listless, simply laying on the couch. John would order him to kneel or some other simple task and the tension would almost immediately slip away. 

As time progressed, he was able to keep Sherlock on more of an even temper, slipping orders into their daily life. Only at home. Never at the Yard or, God forbid, on a case. But gradually the dishes were done more regularly, the experiments stored safely away from food, lab equipment tidied up a bit when not actually in use, though it was still in use more often than not.

\---

John braced himself against the shower wall. He slicked his hand with soap (some of Sherlock’s. He ought to ask about that, but it seemed right) and took himself in hand. He hadn’t done this in a while, but the scene was too much. Sherlock had been kneeling prostrate before him, his broken cries sounding nearly ecstatic as he took the flogging, the thick strips of the flails making his back and arse glow from rosy pink, to deep red, depending on how John chose to strike. Gorgeous. John had trailed his fingers over the warm flesh, appreciating every shudder and moan.

John closed his eyes, remembering every detail as he ran his fingers down, cupping his own balls, feeling them draw taut before he circled his shaft again and began to stroke off in earnest, images of Sherlock from scene after scene filling his head. Sherlock’s arse purpling with cane stripes. Marked as his. Sherlock bound so tightly in rope that he couldn’t move. John could have done anything to him. That trust was heady. Sherlock blindfolded and shuddering, never knowing what sensation to expect next, the ice, the wax, the feathers, the crop. 

When John came, he bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, stifling his cry, not even minding the taste of copper spilling onto his tongue. 

When he emerged in his robe, towelling off his hair, Sherlock looked up at him, “You should put some ice on that.” He looked away for a moment, then added, “You can make noise, you know. It doesn’t bother me.” 

John went to grab some ice, cheeks warm as he muttered, “Ah, right... noted.“

\---

On the way home after his shift at the surgery ended, John was passing a jeweler and paused a moment, taking in a thick silver piece in the shop window. It was just chain, without other adornment, but it’s form was striking. The twined chain looked like rope made of silver. It could pass as a simple necklace, but would make a beautiful collar. John licked his lips, envisioning it against the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. He shook his head, trying to clear the image, but it wouldn’t budge. He had never actually considered presenting anyone with a collar, but he was struck by how much he wanted to. Wanted this, whatever it was, to be forever.

He walked on as in a daze, trying to work it out. They hadn’t defined this at all. How did he bring _that_ up? _I’m not sure we are even dating, but I would like you to be mine forever._ John didn’t even bother to stifle his laugh at that, startling a woman walking past. 

Perhaps this was all just calming Sherlock’s mind, meeting his need to get out of his head. 

_Maybe I’m afraid that’s the answer._

John kept walking, the realizations washing over him. He and Sherlock existed like this in scenes. In moments. Otherwise, life was normal. Tea and telly and cases. 

As much as they had talked about limits and safewords and styles of play, for as much detail as he had demanded, they were going on six months now and hadn’t talked at all about what their relationship was or where it might be headed. 

One thing was clear: they seemed to have left flatmates a long time ago. 

John hadn’t even been flirting with anyone, let alone dating. He never consciously decided to stop, he just... hadn’t wanted to. And now he was thinking a collar. Might as well buy a wedding ring. 

At that last thought, he stopped short in front of the flat, realizing that was exactly what it would mean to him and he didn’t mind. Not at all. He paced a moment on the stoop, letting it sink in. Not only did he not mind, but nothing had ever sounded so beautiful. 

But how to find out if Sherlock felt the same? He scoffed at relationships in general and marriage in particular. _Surely he wouldn’t want…_

Steeling himself to ask, at the very least what this was to him, John let himself in and walked slowly up the stairs; however, the sight that greeted him drove all other plans from his mind. Sherlock kneeling patiently. Sherlock, beside a carefully poured tumbler. Sherlock positioned as perfectly as if John had placed him there, every line of his body composed exactly as he had been taught. A single tool, his favorite crop, lay across Sherlock’s upturned palms. 

_An offering._

Of course John could ignore it if he wasn’t in the mood. At times he had, making sure to soothe Sherlock in other ways, but tonight this felt perfect. He ignored the whiskey for the moment and picked up the crop, drawing the tongue carefully across Sherlock’s cheek down his neck, resting on the exposed hollow of his throat.

He ran his hands over Sherlock’s clothed chest possessively. “Strip, love.” 

Sherlock complied rapidly, as John walked back to the door and clicked the lock so they wouldn’t be interrupted. 

By the time John returned, Sherlock’s clothes were neatly folded in his chair and he was settling gracefully on his knees in the open space of the living room.

John circled around him, letting the tension build, before beginning to strike. He rained rapid moderate blows of the crop across Sherlock’s shoulders. Not enough to hurt, just yet, but warming and sensitizing the skin. 

Sherlock’s head dropped to his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm, the staccato soothing rather than jarring at the moment as John moved down his back and arse.

Gradually, John slowed, but increased the force of his blows, until Sherlock’s back was glowing red and dotted with raised images of the crop head. 

***

Afterwards, Sherlock lay on the couch, head in John’s lap. John stroked his hand idly over the welts, appreciating their warmth under his hand and the soft, satisfied noises Sherlock made as he touched them. He sipped his whiskey now and thought of what he wanted to say to Sherlock, what he needed to ask. But just as the moment felt right to begin, he heard Sherlock’s breathing slip into the deep regular pattern of slumber. This beautiful, infuriating man, had fallen asleep in his lap. 

John shook his head, trying not to laugh. He reached over and dragged the blanket from the arm of the couch and settled it over Sherlock.

\---

It took John a couple days to decide on a new plan. With a final glance at the mirror, he decided he wasn’t going to get any more ready than this. He walked into the kitchen where Sherlock was idly scanning the newspaper.

Sherlock glanced John up and and down before asking, “Who is she?” in a tone that was perhaps aiming at casual, but landed closer to petulant. _Of course, it had to happen at some point._

“Who is… what are you talking about? I’ve been upstairs, did I miss half the conversation?”

Sherlock blew out an exasperated breath. “Those shoes, and freshly polished, no less. She’s special. Trousers pressed, button up. Jacket even. Date night. Hardly a challenging deduction, John.” Sherlocks face and voice both softened from the seriousness of his rapid deductions, turning curious. Still, John couldn’t help but note the slight downturn of his mouth and the way his eyes dulled slightly as he asked, “So, who is she? The new receptionist at the clinic? She seemed to like you.”

John shook his head, stepping forward to stroke Sherlock’s curls. “Nothing much gets by you. Except the obvious.”

Sherlock looked up, confusion suffusing his features, with a brief spark of hurt in his eyes.

“Would you like to go out tonight? If that’s not on, if you’d rather not do that kind of thing at all, that’s fine. We can keep doing what we do. You know, I’ll just go change. I don’t expect you’ll want to.” John started to turn to walk back upstairs, adding, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” more to himself than to Sherlock. 

He hadn’t gotten more than a step when Sherlock called out, “Wait. Please.”

John stopped. 

Sherlock didn’t scoff. If anything, his tone was suffused with wonder. “You want to go on a date? With me?” 

John shook his head, smiling. “Yes, Sherlock. If that isn’t too much. Romance isn’t exactly your area, I gather, but if you wouldn’t be averse to it, I would very much like to take you out tonight. If this pushes your boundaries too far, just tell me. It doesn’t change anything. We can keep doing exactly what we’ve been enjoying either way.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, eyes narrowed in concentration before his features relaxed. He stared at John quietly for a moment, studying his face before responding, “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” and bounding off to his room. 

John stared after him, slightly perplexed, but pleased. 

\---

Sherlock’s heart was racing. _Was the other shoe going to drop? That John was going to want more?_

Sherlock took a deep breath. John had been lovely this whole time. Even now, he had said nothing had to change. And he had never pushed for anything beyond what Sherlock offered. 

Concentrating on the spike of jealousy he had felt when he thought John was going out with someone else made it clear that he did want this, even if he had no idea what to do with that. 

_I can do this_

He selected his clothes based on what John was wearing, settling on a charcoal grey suit and white button up, fluffed his hands through his curls and headed out to John again. 

“May I know where we are headed?” Sherlock asked as they descended the stairs to hail a cab.

“The Landmark. Well, Two Twenty Two.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. Outside of John’s usual choices. It was a place people went to celebrate anniversaries, to get engaged. Not a first date sort of location, but then perhaps they’d been edging towards this for a long time. 

\---

Dinner was delicious and over the course of their meal, Sherlock relaxed. This was just them, really. The banter was easy as they recounted their day, rehashed recent cases. Whatever had shifted between them had happened long ago. 

The final piece slid into place over dessert. John offered a forkful of decadent chocolate souffle. 

Sherlock bit back a retort about the ability to use his own silverware. That wasn’t the point of the gesture. He leant forward, taking the fork between his lips and savoured the rich cocoa. Letting John feed him, in public no less, was a different surrender, but he felt it keenly. Most would take it as a purely romantic moment, and there was that element to it, but Sherlock felt like he had practically dropped to his knees. Flushing as he licked a smear of chocolate from his lip, Sherlock whispered, “Thank you, sir,” too low for any but John to hear.

John smiled brightly. “You’re welcome.”

When they arrived back at the flat, John stroked Sherlock’s curls and he leaned into the touch. “What shall we do with the rest of our evening, hm? I’ve had what I wanted most. What would entertain you?”

“I had a lovely time, too, John,” Sherlock said, “And you’re sure I can’t do anything else for you? There isn’t anything else you need?”

“Sherlock,” John said, pulling him close, “I love you. I didn’t expect that is how this would go, but it has. I love what we have, what we do. And I love exactly who you are. You don’t need to change anything or worry about it. I don’t need anything else. I think I finally understand what you are on about ‘transport’. The rest is just that. Transport. I can take care of that and you know I do. Come. Sit.”

John led Sherlock to the couch. “There isn’t anyone else I want. That’s why I wanted to see if this worked. And you’re fine with it? With us actually being together?”

“More than fine, John.” Sherlock glanced down and licked his lips before meeting John’s gaze again. “There is something I would like, though. I would like to kiss you. Just kiss you. I didn’t dislike that before, it just seemed rather pointless, but I think I would like it, with you.”

John didn’t trust himself to speak, he simply reached out and cupped Sherlock’s jaw to draw him close. Their lips met, lightly at first, but it felt electric. It was soft and gentle, but neither hesitated. 

Drawing back, they looked into one another’s eyes for a moment and Sherlock nodded, moving almost imperceptibly back towards John and then they were kissing again, all soft lips and the taste of chocolate and wine. It was lovely. 

“Fine?” John asked, when they had finally parted.

“Perfect.” Sherlock sighed contentedly and curled against John’s shoulder.

They were really doing this, then. And Sherlock hadn’t backed off at the mention of anything romantic. In fact, he seemed to be quite enjoying it. 

All in all, the evening had gone far better than John had dared hope. 

\---

Sherlock lay facedown on John’s bed, his face pillowed on his arms, breathing in John’s scent.  
John had been wrapping, tying, twisting and knotting for ages, wrapping him in coils of soft, deep purple rope. Sherlock was surprised at how quickly he had dropped into subspace. He had been tied up before, though it was usually a means to end, to hold a position, or with other doms, occasionally to hold some infuriating toy in place. This was different, rope for the sake of it, because John liked the way he looked in it. So he made himself pliant and luxuriated in the attention.

It should have been boring, but somehow, the rope pressing against his skin, John repositioning him this way and that, was soothing. It felt right.

John shifted Sherlock’s arms, pulling a pillow into place under Sherlock’s head. He drew the arms back and twined them with rope as well, securing them behind his back. He straddled Sherlock’s legs last, looping the rope one last time and securing the ends. It was impossible to ignore that John is hard against him, but Sherlock has grown used to the idea that it wasn’t his place to sort that. He merely smiled, knowing that having him like this brought John as much pleasure as it brought him, albeit of a different persuasion. 

“Such a good boy for me,” John murmured, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair before tugging lightly on the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock moaned and arched his neck gracefully until John released him. 

Sherlock shivered as John trailed his fingers along the lines of the rope until every inch of exposed flesh tingled. He felt so much more naked than when he wasn’t wearing anything. 

John grabbed his phone and snapped a couple of pictures, sitting Sherlock up slowly, so he could get the star shaped knot in the center of his chest. “I’ll delete them later, if you’d rather. I just wanted you to see how gorgeous you are like this.” 

He helped Sherlock lay down again, taking a moment to drop a kiss at his hip as he walked past to set his phone down on the dresser and pick up the Wartenberg wheel, the smooth steel of the handle slightly cold in his hand. John playfully spun the spiked wheel at the end with his finger, wondering if Sherlock would figure out what tool he had picked up by the soft sound as it turned. He took his time alternating light touches and soft kisses with the sharp pricks of the wheel as Sherlock squirmed and moaned. When he was finished, each line of the wrap was echoed in tiny lines of pink dots. 

The unknotting and unwinding went faster than the initial bondage, but was still a slow process, the lengths of rope whispering over his skin as they were pulled through. John sat him up, so he could unwind the chest without shifting him so much and Sherlock nearly drifted off right there.

When the last piece pulled free, John drew him into an embrace. “Hey, love. How are you doing?”

Sherlock smiled. “That was surprisingly pleasant.”

John chuckled. “Thought you’d be bored, didn’t you?” 

“Perhaps a bit,” Sherlock admitted, “But I’ll try what you want within reason. I needn’t have worried. You’re never boring, John.”

“I’m going to go get cleaned up. Meet me back here in a bit?” 

While John showered, Sherlock went to his room, examining the marks before pulling on pyjamas. He made tea and sat sipping his until he heard the water shut off and heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. Refilling his own cup and pouring one for John, Sherlock made his way back upstairs. 

“Come here,” John beckoned from his bed. He raised the sheet and coverlet open, so Sherlock could crawl in beside him. 

Sherlock hesitated a moment, taking in John’s soft gaze, his expression hopeful rather than commanding. _Invitation, not order. Interesting._ Sherlock handed John his mug and set his own on the bedside table, then slid between the sheets, facing away from John. 

John sipped his tea and idly stroked Sherlock’s curls. When he had finished, he set aside his mug and wrapped the covers around them, enfolding Sherlock in his arms. 

They hadn’t done anything like this before, but it felt safe. Sherlock swallowed hard, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, struggling against tears.

“If you get restless, I understand,” John whispered. “You can get up whenever you’d like. I know you seldom come to bed this early. Hell, some days you don’t go to bed at all. You don’t have to stay, I just wanted…” he hesitated, not wanting Sherlock to get the wrong idea. “I just wanted you here.”

“I know.” Sherlock managed. He turned and settled in, resting his head against John’s shoulder and, despite his greater height, curled himself around John.

_Safe. Home_

Soon, he had closed his eyes and, for a wonder, actually drifted off.

\---

Sherlock held John’s hand, the warmth seeping through to him even through their gloves. The warehouse was cold and it was so dark they could hardly see, but a torch would broadcast their location, so they crept along, hand in hand, silently. 

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John nearly ran into him, squeezing John’s hand as he ducked lower. John followed suit just in time. A guard walked by, inches away from their hiding spot. 

When he was gone, Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, “We should have 5 minutes.” 

They slipped into the hallway, entering the attached office portion of the building. John switched on the torch and held it so Sherlock could more efficiently pick the lock on the first door on the left, letting them into the shipping office. Four minutes left. Sherlock rifled through papers on the desktop and opened doors until he found what he sought, a shipping receipt that linked their suspect to the warehouse. The link between the warehouse and the drug ring was clear enough, but this was the first irrefutable evidence between the warehouse and Steven Pines. Sherlock snapped a picture of that and a couple other documents. One minute left, Sherlock set everything neatly back. He might have been able to tell things had been disturbed, but thankfully, the average person was not likely that attuned to every sign. 

John shut off the torch and they hustled back into the warehouse with seconds to spare, just as the footsteps approached again, the guard approaching on his return circuit.

\----

John had left Sherlock at home puzzling over all the evidence, just as he had been for the last day and a half. He had been so focused he hardly spoke and John had chuckled to himself as he kissed the top of his head on the way out the door. He wondered when in the day Sherlock would catch up to the fact he had left for the clinic. 

A couple hours into his shift, his phone rang. He had just finished with a patient and glanced at his phone, wondering briefly why Greg was calling him rather than Sherlock. Maybe he was so deep in his mind palace he hadn’t heard the phone. It wouldn’t be the first time. John picked up, “Greg?”

“John, you’re going to want to come down here. Sherlock’s been shot. It isn’t major, I don’t think, but meet me at Bart’s as soon as you can.”

“Christ. On my way,“ John said, pulling on his coat. He made his excuses to Sarah and hailed a cab. 

As it turned out, Sherlock had gone back for more evidence, realizing too late that he should have brought John and Greg wouldn’t be there in time. 

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, Steven Pines was actually in the office and in their scuffle, Sherlock was shot. 

Greg got there shortly afterward and was able to make the arrest and summon the ambulance. 

John thanked Greg for calling him and had to spend fifteen minutes arguing with a nurse before she’d even let him in.

Ignoring Greg and any other damn thing, John crossed the room and kissed Sherlock. 

“You bloody idiot. What were you thinking going in alone?”

“He needed to be brought in. I needed more evidence. He’s never been there in the day in any of my observations. I thought it would be relatively safe.”

“But you were shot!”

“Well, yes, the safety was obviously a miscalculation. But it is only grazed. They’ll be in to release me shortly. Then you can deal with me at home” he added cheekily.

John had no intention whatsoever of taking this so lightly. 

\---

John tried to let it go. Really he did. Sherlock was alright and he knew he shouldn’t have gone off alone. He’d even apologised. But that wasn’t all of what rubbed him the wrong way. 

He had been alternately coddling Sherlock and sulking until finally Sherlock asked, “What is wrong now! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off alone, but I am the one who paid for it. Why are you still so angry?”

“In that hospital while the nurse was stalling... no, sneering, really, that ‘partner’ wasn’t an accepted family relationship, what if I’d lost you?”

“It was only a graze, John. I’m fine!” Sherlock scoffed.

“You were shot! And that isn’t the bloody point.” John’s smile was tight, not reaching his eyes. He clenched his fist. “I can’t…” he took a deep breath, swallowing the ‘lose you,’ which should have finished that sentence. “I can’t do this. I can’t argue with you about this right now.” John stalked off, dragging his hand over his face and slamming the door behind him. 

Sherlock stared after him trying to puzzle out what to do to fix this.

\---

It was an hour and thirty four minutes later that John walked back in the door. Not that Sherlock would admit to counting. They went on as though nothing happened. John was calm now, though like as not it would surface in some way again over the next few days. It wasn’t what any expert would endorse for relationships, but the supposed experts were idiots anyway. This worked for them. 

But when it surfaced, it was nothing like Sherlock had expected. Just like John to continually surprise him. And, though it was infuriating at times, it was also one of the things he loved the most. 

From across the table as Sherlock absently nibbled his toast and scanned through the paper, John said, “I want to do this forever.”

“Drink tea and read a terrible mystery novel?” Sherlock said with an arched brow. It wasn’t what John meant, but it made them both smile.

John shook his head, eyes sparkling. “My book isn’t terrible, though you will not appreciate the results if you tell me who did it. Not that. This. Us.”

“Us... like this... forever,” Sherlock repeated as though honestly trying to sort the syllables into some sort of recognisable English.

“Exactly.” John stood up and carried his dishes to the sink as Sherlock argued.

“There is absolutely no way you can know right now what you want forever. There are too many variables and-”

John leaned in and cut Sherlock off with a kiss, before responding. “I’m sure.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Would you wear my collar?”

“How would that be any different than what we have?”

“Permanence, I suppose. Our rules work. I wouldn’t need anything more from you than what you already give.” 

Sherlock nodded, though whether in assent or understanding, it was hard to say. 

John paused a moment, then added, “What about marriage?”

“It's just a piece of paper, John.”

"So is money, but we all know it means more than that. In this case, the ability to stay by you if something happens and you land in hospital again. When, I should say. Because keeping you out of hospital is bloody unlikely." 

Sherlock scoffed, "Mycroft can sort that." 

"And we both know how much you enjoy being indebted to your brother. Besides, what if he's out of the country?" 

"When has that stopped his meddling?" 

"Fair enough.” John looked down a moment before meeting Sherlock’s gaze steadily. “What if I just like the idea of declaring how much I adore you in front of all our friends? Of everyone knowing that you're mine?"

Sherlock looked alarmed, then frankly baffled, merely blinking at John for a moment. “Well if you’re going to muddle the argument with sentiment, I can hardly be expected to continue.”

John smiled at that. Sherlock would come around.

\---

A year later...

John turned the taps, making sure the water was warm. “You coming in?” he called out. 

Sherlock opened the door and smirked at him. “I expected you’d have some rot about not seeing me today.”

“Well, you’re not a bride, are you? Doesn’t apply.” He slapped Sherlock playfully on the arse as he got in and shifted aside so Sherlock could use the water.

They soaped each other, slick hands sliding over wet skin. John handed Sherlock the shampoo and he washed John’s hair, massaging his scalp. Once rinsed off, Sherlock ducked down for John to return the favor, always enjoying the sensation of lathering those wet curls beneath his fingers, pulling just enough from time to time to make Sherlock moan deliciously.

Sherlock stood up all the way and rinsed off. “I think I’m done. Shall I leave you alone for a bit?” 

“Not this morning,” John said, leaning in for a quick kiss.”We should get going. Wouldn’t do to be late.”

Sherlock nodded and turned off the taps. He stepped out and handed John a towel.

The rest of the morning preparations went by in a blur, as they donned matching dove grey suits and polished shoes and Sherlock fussed more than usual over his hair. Sooner than they expected, one of Mycroft’s cars arrived. 

“Shall we?”


End file.
